


Over oceans unknown (You are always with me)

by Miele_Petite



Series: Over oceans unknown (You are always with me) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Art, Fanart, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Pining, Poetry, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 04:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20270086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miele_Petite/pseuds/Miele_Petite
Summary: Forced away from Aziraphale during the crusades, Crowley lurks in Persia and meets a very interesting human who will immortalize his feelings for the angel for centuries to come. Illustrated.





	Over oceans unknown (You are always with me)

I once had a thousand desires, but in my one desire to know you, all else melted away  
-Rumi

When trying to explain the miracle of something as inexplicable as the origin of a spark of genius, human beings tend to tell stories. Sometimes those stories spin to myth, bursting with the implausible, and past as we are of the age of reason, we shake our heads at the bygone world's desire for magic. This story is true, though. Crowley runs across the human record of it one day while reflecting on an old acquaintance, and he knows the truth of it because he'd been there, seven centuries ago. Sure, a few details had changed, as they often do in the telephone game that is human storytelling over the course of time, but the essentials of the story still ring true. The memories and the produce from that time- so many words- are bitter and sweet, and sometimes he can't help himself and prods at it like a toothache, reading those old words, to feel both the pain and what cures it.

It is said that long ago in Persia a certain scholar from Balkh, who took up the mantle of his father before him, became a wise teacher, sought out by those who hungered for knowledge. He will eventually be known sometimes simply as Master, because of the depth of his insights, but for now he is known as Jalaladdin Rumi. One day, as this scholar is sitting in the garden, reading to improve his mind, a stranger walks by.

The stranger, it turns out, is in a foul mood. Really, Crowley had been in a foul mood for a century and a half. He is bored, and he is lonely, and he is in Persia doing nothing he wants to be doing, trying to blend in. He kicks at a stone. Things had been going so well before. Well, as well as they could be, given he was damned and stuck on this backwater planet working for the forces of evil. It hadn't been all bad though. In between the usual skirmishes with the forces of good, and performing mildly bad deeds to put on field reports, he'd had some fairly entertaining interludes with heaven's representative on earth, Aziraphale. The angel was always enthusiastic about introducing him to some new human culinary invention, or blathering on about their latest scribbles on clay tablets, or papyrus, or whatever they happened to be using to make themselves feel smarter. Sometimes he enjoyed the food, more often the drink, but always the company. It wasn't the kind of company he should be keeping, he knew, but the kind that he should was hardly worth having.

It wasn't just that unreasonable incandescence that poured off of the angel in waves, the demon reflected. Others of his kind had that, of course. It was the plain and honest kindness that intrigued him the most. That was, as far as his experience had taught him, unique in heaven or hell. Of course the angel was totally indiscriminate with it, so it didn't make Crowley feel special or anything, when it was aimed at him. But certainly no one else had ever shone light on a demon like that, which made him special.

But now the latest flavor of Abrahamic religion was clashing with the previous one, and those meetings were cancelled till further notice it seemed. It was all so ridiculous and he failed to see any real difference the believers had, or how those differences even mattered but, he lamented, the devil is in the details. With a holy war kicked off, heaven'd got the bright idea to send down reinforcements and Aziraphale, flanked by some of his more prickly co-workers, had stayed well away, which was probably wise. And so the only good thing in his wretched existence was snuffed out.

He'd had a bit of a mope. Well, that is to say he'd been cross for fourteen decades, and if he was honest with himself, pining for at least the last twelve. Humans would observe that absence makes the heart grow fonder- the smarmy bastards- but in this case it had merely given him time to reflect on what he already knew was true. And so here he was, alone, miserable, and stupidly in love with his enemy.

This day, as he is trudging along, kicking at stones, he is stoking his melancholy by thinking about those annoying endless-sky-blue eyes and the angel's ridiculous fondness for reading. He had always been reading something at Crowley, who would of course roll his eyes and pretend to be suffering, but now he'd give anything to listen to the stupid angel drone on.

And so, as he passes the scholar, his heart full of yearning and loneliness, he sees the man is reading a book. Against his better judgement and in a moment of sad nostalgia, Crowley decides to bend and ask the man what it was then, that he was reading.

The scholar glances up at the man who has blocked his reading light, irritated. The stranger is clothed all in black, disheveled, his eyes red-rimmed, and covered in dust from his beard to his sandals. This is actually an unfortunate side effect of having earlier caused a non-terminal but significant plague among beasts of burden, and as a consequence having no donkey to carry himself or his baggage from the last town, but Rumi would never know that.

This ruffian is clearly not anyone that the scholar would want to engage with. He replies haughtily that what he's reading is "knowledge that cannot be understood by the unlearned."

Crowley is already in a foul mood as previously mentioned, now made fouler by this insult, and a moment later, much to the scholar's surprise, his book is on fire. He drops it, yelping, while the stranger looks on, amused.

"What was that?" Rumi shouts, alarmed and confused.

"Knowledge that can't be understood by the learned." the demon replies, peevishly.

Neither of them is quite sure, then, what makes them decide to have supper together after that. Perhaps it is because it is the first good laugh either one had had in a long while, or perhaps it was just part of some unknowable plan. They talk late into the evening, the scholar proving indeed very wise, and actually quite good company. The stranger, though, Rumi soon discovers, is seemingly full of a fire for the sacred he's never encountered before. It intrigues him, awakens a genius in him, fastening a friendship that will benefit them both. Looking back, Crowley can't say why he so readily confided in Rumi. Maybe it was just the very drinkable Persian wine, but nevertheless he's glad to have an outlet and some company for a bit.

One day, as they are sitting together, enjoying a piece of sugar cane- its floral sweetness a reminder of his love- the demon tells Rumi again how much he misses the friend. The scholar chews and nods knowingly. The friend is God, he's gathered from the effusive descriptions the stranger (who has been calling himself Shams to blend in) always gives when they talk. Shams' longing, his love for the spirit has become such a muse, inspiring him to look deeper, and draws the scholar's heart before his head to the things of God. For his part, Crowley/ Shams enjoys the eloquence with which Rumi sums up his suffering. It's almost a validation.

The scholar turns to him and says, "You are like a reed flute, with all of this crying out. Pulled from the reed bed- anyone pulled from a source longs to go back."

Crowley bows his head in agreement. He is hollowed out, and full of moaning, but he finds himself freed when he unburdens his mind with Rumi, who will always listen to his song.

Once he even dared to tell him about his first errand in Eden. The scholar, thinking it was some sort of metaphor, as always when he recounted such fantastical things said to him, "You were born with wings. You were not meant for crawling, so don't."

It doesn't heal his wounds, but it does soothe them.

It is a strange reliance, but for four years Crowley stays there, attending to his assignments quickly when he has to, but then always returning to while away the days with Rumi in conversation. It is a balm to have someone to listen, as he spills out his longing and honest adoration in equal measure, the scholar realizing it all into a deeper connection to the divine. It will lead later to works that will ignite the human heart, and for one demon serve as a reminder of the pleasure of pouring out one's pain.

One night as the early December stars emerge, twinkling out cold light, Shams is summoned to the back door by the arrival of a message. Out in the quiet dark of the courtyard, he is handed a fold of paper by a man who leaves without comment. Crowley turns the letter over in his hands a few times before opening it. He'd expected orders from his masters, but that is not what this is. The script is familiar and he feels a leaping in his chest. Inside is a missive from the angel.

"Dear fellow," it reads, "Sorry it has been so long. I've managed to get reassigned due to some unpleasantness up in Mont Granier. It's not been any fun of course, but still better than that awful business down there. Join me for dinner, if you're free? The cheeses here are absolutely lovely."

It was signed simply 'A', but it didn't even need to be.

Crowley's heart lurches with an unaccustomed joy, and his legs feel barely able to support him. He turns and spares a look for the dark doorway where inside he knows the scholar is waiting. All at once he knows there is nothing more now that he can give to him, nor receive. It's with a small pang that he walks away, steps quickening as he flies to answer the clarion call of his heart.

* * *

In the pre-dawn light, Rumi stands in the doorway and sighs. Looking out at the garden he somehow knows that Shams won't ever return, that the only place to find him now is by looking inside. As he turns, his head full both of longing and understanding, he sees a dark shape in the dust of the door frame. He bends to inspect it- a single black feather, stiff, and dark as a starless sky. He picks it up, a serviceable quill, and returns inside to light the lamp of his study.

**Author's Note:**

> The story told of Rumi meeting Shams Tabrizi really does describe Shams as dressed in black, and that after their exchanged insults of being unlearned and learned, that Rumi's book catches fire. I was already feeling like so much of his poetry describes the Crowley/Aziraphale ship, but that clenched it for me to have to write this.  
Also, please know that I mean absolutely no offense to those who are practicing Sufism as I think it is one of the most beautiful expressions of human beings striving to understand the world.  
Please let me know if you enjoy- I am planning at least 12 works in this series, with illustration :)


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